


Time and Time to Come

by littledust



Category: Exiles - Melanie Rawn
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/M, Fantasy Politics, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:53:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8878471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: Politics and marriage: the two things Sarra and Collan do best.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Griddlebone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griddlebone/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, dear recipient! I've loved this series for a very long time (and long lamented its unfinished state), so it was such a treat to write about these characters. ♥

"I've been thinking," Sarra said drowsily.

Collan, about to fall asleep with his Lady in his arms for the first time in three weeks, groaned. "If you can think straight after that, I haven't done my duty as a husband."

The resulting sleepy little laugh turned his heart to porridge, loath as Collan was to admit it. Sarra Liwellan was many things in front of many people--she even chose to sound adorable when it suited her purposes--but she was vulnerable in front of only a few. He wound his fingers through the silken strands of her hair and massaged her head, hoping to help her drift off to sleep.

But such close contact meant that he could practically feel the wheels in Sarra's head turning. When most people were "just thinking," they were thinking about what they wanted for supper, or at most whether their fence needed immediate mending or could hold out for another season. Sarra's "just thinking" cut through Lenfell like wrong notes from a piccolo, except by the time she was finished, Lenfell had adjusted itself to play in her key. Collan loved that about her, truly, but she was finally home after weeks spent on some delicate adjustment to legal codes that meant people were able to own their own ideas without ceding profits to the first of their Name. It had been an ugly, unpopular fight, but Sarra marshaled the changes through for the sake of a fourth tier woman who died penniless after her Name's First Daughter stole the blueprints for her invention.

Collan heaved a sigh straight from his toes; considering his height, it had quite a ways to travel. "Out with it, or you won't sleep at all."

"You know me too well." Sarra favored him with an apologetic smile as she turned over and propped her cheek up on her hand. "There's not much codified about intellectual property at all, actually. I was able to push this legislation through because there's precedent for inventors to retain control of specific inventions. But it's the _idea_ that belongs to them."

"And ideas can be more than just inventions," Collan finished. Sarra was almost certainly on to something, but all his exhausted brain could summon was an image of some knock-kneed lute player claiming that she wrote one of Falundir's songs. A master work like that spoke for itself; anyone claiming ownership of such genius would prove herself a liar through her own performance.

Still, if he ever got around to finishing a song, it would be nice if no one could steal it.

Sarra kept talking, but if Collan were to be honest, he stopped listening after the first few words. Sarra was a brilliant politician, but she wasn't a lawyer, and she'd need to consult half a dozen before this idea was ready to go out into the world. There were more pressing reforms on her plate, too; likely this idea would get relegated to one of the lesser trays on her desk and then come out to play sometime next year. Collan, who had avoided respectability all his life, found the glacial pace of government fascinating and frustrating by turns.

No, what mattered to him was the color in Sarra's cheeks, and the snapping brightness in her black eyes. When she had arrived home mid-morning, she looked like a shadow of herself. The last legislative push had gotten nasty, to the point where Sarra had lost some friends in government. In Collan's world, a friend didn't leave you to swing when things seemed to be going south, but Sarra's world made for strange friendships, including with people you disagreed with about every social issue imaginable. Sarra had scars from compromises as well as battles. This time, it had been a battle.

"--and of course there's nothing I can do now." Sarra bit her lip as she trailed off.

Any Minstrel worth his salt knew how to come in on cue, and Collan was no exception. He cupped her face in one hand and kissed her, soft and lingering. "You've done something for intellectual property already. Now you have plans to do more. But don't think I plan on sharing my bed with the entire Council, First Daughter!"

Sarra grinned. "I know at least a few Councillors who wouldn't object."

"Anyone with eyes and taste wouldn't object," Collan corrected her.

"Anyone with taste would want a bit more modesty in a man."

"Modesty? You've husbanded a man of my caliber and you still think what women look for is _modesty_?"

She batted her eyelashes. "Why don't you show me, Minstrel mine?"

Collan did.

*

When Sarra lost her temper--well and truly lost her temper beyond the hope of civil discourse--she took refuge in her office. Her office received plenty of letters, the subjects of which ranged from ludicrous demands on the government to requests to legalize outright discrimination. There was always someone to eviscerate through the written word, and though Sarra rarely published a response to these letters, she always felt better afterward. Thus she was able to sit on the Council with a serene countenance, no matter how offensive the proposals placed before her. Politicians nearly twice her age marveled at such poise in someone so young.

Unfortunately, Sarra hadn't thought to bring the most egregiously offensive letters home to Roseguard. Even more unfortunately, right now _she_ was the person she was angry with. Less than a day at home, and already a large part of her longed to return to Ryka Court. The world of politics was a labyrinth in its own right, but one that she knew how to navigate better than almost anyone else on Lenfell. Domestic life in Roseguard was another matter.

Sarra forced herself to stop pacing the gardens (and making every gardener nervous in the process) and settle on a bench. Running back to Ryka Court was a coward's move, and Sarra Liwellan--Sarra Ambrai in her heart of hearts--was no coward.

She just wasn't much of a mother, apparently.

Her temper, already worn by travel, had begun to fray this morning when she arrived at Roseguard. The whole household turned out in full force, including Mikel and Taigan, nearly three years old and turned out in their finest. By some miracle (also known as the hand of Tarise), their finest was still presentable even after a quick breakfast. As Sarra approached her children, Mikel took a step back to hide behind Collan's leg and Taigan whispered, "Who's that?"

Really, there was no possible way to improve the day after that.

Sarra locked horns with some of the greatest political powers in Lenfell on a weekly, if not daily, basis. In the past year, she had run for and re-won her position as Councillor of Sheve, despite a resentful conservative backlash against the many changes (improvements, really) she had orchestrated in her short time in government. Despite the people's resistance to change, Sarra had pushed, and pushed further still, knowing that she worked for the good of Lenfell.

Yet all of Sarra's considerable skills failed to impress children under the approximate age of ten. She just didn't know what to do with small children. Typically she would say something inane out of nerves (she! nervous!), the children would stare at her, she would say something twice as stupid, and the cycle would continue until someone put her out of her misery. Usually that someone was Collan, who had taken to fatherhood with a zeal that Ryka Court whispered about, although in a mostly approving way. What more could one expect of a Nameless former slave? He had no idea that nannies raised the children of Bloods, allowing the husband to see to the day-to-day running of the estate. Collan, damn him, could manage twin toddler terrors and still have energy to spare for Roseguard.

Tears stung Sarra's eyes. She knuckled them away with a furious sniff and stared straight ahead, pretending to admire the newly laid out flowerbeds. Lady Agatine had never been a distant figure to _her_. She remembered little of her mother after all these years, but Sarra had always known Maichen as her mother in the days of Ambrai. What excuse did Sarra Liwellan have for not knowing her own children? She had carried them inside her, nurtured their bodies with her own, and yet now she was a stranger to them.

"Finished sulking yet?"

Sarra ground her teeth at the sound of Collan's voice, far too teasing for her mood. "I don't know what you're talking about." The instant the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Now there was no chance that Collan would leave the matter be.

Sure enough, Collan knelt on one knee before her bench, his eyes wide and very blue. His height allowed him to look her in the eye, even though her seat was higher. "I mean your charming retreat from your equally charming children, First Daughter. They're babies. You can't expect them to know you when you spent the better part of the year running for reelection."

"I'm their _mother_!"

"And they'll know you soon enough. 'Course, that won't happen if you skulk around the garden, then barricade yourself in your office for the rest of the day." Though Collan's tone remained light and teasing, the humor faded from his expression. He had missed her, too. Sarra was supposed to be home in Roseguard for four weeks, but they both knew that the demands of her office would spirit her away in two.

Sarra could have used her politician's charm to smooth over the moment. It was tempting--Sarra hated falling short of her own expectations, and between Lady Agatine and Lilen Ostin, she knew all that a mother could be. But Sarra leaned forward instead, pressing her forehead against Collan's, and closed her eyes.

"I've beaten every challenge thrown my way," Sarra murmured. That she had to even acknowledge that was its own defeat, but Collan knew that. He understood everything about her.

"So rise to the challenge of getting to know our adorable monsters." Though Sarra's eyes were still closed, she could _feel_ Collan's grin. "Trust me, there's no opportunity for boredom!" Voice pitched for her ears alone, he added, "Look around the corner, but be quick about it."

Pretending to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes, Sarra glanced over. Two small faces peeked around the enormous rosebush at the end of the path. She had just enough time to feel impressed at their stealth when the giggling started.

This game, Sarra knew how to play. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" she called.

*

Collan looked into the mirror and grinned. Not bad for a man approaching the older side of middle age. A bit of gray around the temples just made him look distinguished, and he was still the best-dressed man in all of Lenfell, if he said so himself. (Sarra would say that he did say so, and often.) His longvest, delicately embroidered with the sigils of his Name and his lady's, was his Birthingday gift to himself and would undoubtedly start a new fashion at the party tonight. Tarise had the twins in bed already, so his ensemble was safe from tiny, sticky fingers.

Collan's self-satisfied mood lasted until the first guests began to arrive. It took every bit of Minstrel grace to keep his jaw from hanging open as the stodgiest, most insufferable Names in Lenfell trickled in. They all bore gilt-edged invitations, which they wielded with little smirks of triumph. Unless Roseguard had a serious (and social climbing) forger on the premesis, the invitations originated with one person: Sarra. Collan was going to spend his Birthingday among dear friends--and a bunch of unbearable idiots.

Good manners saw Collan through his initial shock. He greeted everyone with equal cordiality, even the Bloods who made exquisitely condescending remarks about how he had planned this whole event _all by himself_ , as though brains in a male were some charming quirk of nature. After choking down the third such remark, Collan entertained himself by imagining increasingly creative revenge scenarios. He quite liked the one where Sarra had to listen to her own singing for an entire day--the trick would be getting Cailet to work a spell to make that possible. Pity she wasn't able to tear herself away from her mages for this particular celebration, but they had her word that they'd see her soon.

Years of practice at engineering social situations allowed Sarra to maneuver herself to the opposite side of the room no matter where Collan stood. If he fled a cluster of Lady So-and-So's sniffing about the decline of civilization, Sarra found her way into the center of a group of dandies, each hoping to trade on his strapping young body for a comfortable income. Calling those Blooded boys whores-- _that_ would be one surefire way to scandalize all the unwelcome guests. 

But as much as Collan needed a good shouting match with Sarra, getting into one right now would be social and political suicide. Jaw aching from a forced smile and gritted teeth, Collan continued with the party pleasantries. Sarra, damn her dimples, kept casting little smiles in his direction as though this were some kind of charming joke.

Perhaps seeing the murder in his eyes, his beloved wife signaled for dinner a few minutes early. A childhood as a slave and a life on the road made Collan too practical to let anger steal his appetite. Besides, the dishes were all his favorites--Sarra hadn't sneaked any unwelcome additions into the menu, at least. He took a savage bite of the first appetizer and plotted.

The problem was that most revenge scenarios would hurt Sarra's career. As much as Collan wanted to launch Lenfell's finest into the atmosphere, things would only be the worse for him if he did. What the hell was Sarra playing at? Trying to prove to her enemies that she could control her Nameless rover turned husband? But for once, Sarra wasn't in the midst of pushing legislative reforms through the government. Why the need to impress? A display of power--not Sarra's mastery of it; she was as secure in her position as a politician could be--a display of power on his Birthingday--

Just as Sarra clinked her fork against her glass, signaling the servers to bring out the cake, Collan laughed. Maybe fatherhood _had_ worn down his edges. To think he'd almost missed Sarra's Birthingday gift to him. Oh, Sarra still deserved a smidgen of sweet revenge, but also ample thanks, both of which he would make later--in private.

As was customary at any event planned by Collan Rosvenir, music performances followed the meal. Collan made his way to the raised platform at the far end of the ballroom. "I'm told it's my Birthingday and you all have to listen to me perform whether you like it or not," Collan drawled. Chuckles went around the room. Collan was hardly the only member of society to have a taste for the spotlight, and one of the with enough talent to merit one.

Collan indulged in more harmless banter as he tuned his lute. Full half of the audience seemed genuinely interested in hearing him play, which was a better percentage than most Minstrels faced at the beginning of a night. Falundir wore one of his serene smiles. Sarra had her society face on, lips curved no more than decorous, but her black eyes danced. Clever wretch. He looked forward to getting her alone later.

Collan finger-picked the opening lines of the lewdest taven song he knew and grinned when those glorious black eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. The audience members who knew the song gave themselves away with embarrassed coughs--it wouldn't do for the flower of Lenfell's society to admit to knowing such a song.

Much as he'd delight in scandalizing all polite society, Collan had other plans. Bard he wasn't, but Collan was a deft hand (literally) at transitioning between two songs. The tavern song's cheerful major key gave way to something sweeter and sadder. There were few in the audience who would know this song, and likely only Falundir knew this particular version.

The song was too old to have a single name. Falundir's music folio listed it as "The Named and the Nameless," but the Bard had recorded several alternate names beneath the title. The song set itself up as a tragedy: a Blooded lady falls in love with a penniless Fifth Tier. She courts him even though their love is impossible, marries him despite the objections of her mother and her court. Collan sang of the sweetness of their devotion even as he played a darker counter-melody, hinting that the worst was yet to come. The audience nodded, unsurprised, when the lady discoverer her husband's infidelity. What else to expect from a Fifth Tier?

Still, Collan pleaded sweetly as the husband, protesting his innocence. The lady, facing the loss of her court, hardens her heart against her beloved's pleas and casts him from her household. The mob waiting outside the gate tears him to pieces. A suitable and bloody lesson on marrying within one's station. Audience members raised their hands, preparing to applaud.

But the song continued. The lady returns to her study, weeping. A terrified servant confesses that she saw her mother plant evidence of her husband's supposed infidelity. The lady's husband had been faithful all along; it was the lady's Blooded mother, and the hatred society bore for Fifth Tiers, that killed him.

Collan never put his soul into his art, but a small piece of it wove its way into the song's last refrain, transformed from a warning against contaminating bloodlines to a warning against poisoning hearts. The dead man spoke through his song, one final aching plea.

There was only a smattering of applause as Collan's last note died away. Some audience members wiped away tears, including one Blooded old dragon who Collan would have sworn had never talked to anyone below a Third Tier in her life. Still more audience members sat frozen with discomfort, unwilling to applaud such subversive lyrics but equally unwilling to lose favor with one of the most powerful women on Lenfell. Insulting her husband would amount to the same thing--look at Lady Sarra, standing and applauding!

Desire for power won, as Collan knew it would. As Sarra planned it would. The rest of the audience joined Sarra's wild applause. Friends and foes alike, they all danced to his tune.

Collan further scandalized his audience by winking at his wife. "A joyous Birthingday!" he shouted with Minstrel flair, and only Sarra knew exactly why.

*

Sarra had a unique way of preparing for a debate. She sat a few trusted people down, then paced back and forth in front of them, arguing both sides with herself. It took new members of her office a while to understand that Sarra didn't want suggestions or counterarguments from the people sitting before her. She needed witnesses, an audience. Afterward, she always grilled her people on their impressions. Which argument had the strongest presentation? Did a particular turn of phrase make a difference? Was there a lull at any point during her prepared remarks?

A lifetime in politics left Sarra with few illusions, not that many had survived the Rising. A gifted politician knew how to put on a show. She had to win hearts as well as minds; even those who claimed that they voted based on "just the facts, Councillor" wanted to _feel_ good about the facts.

"Sarra," Collan said, despite Sarra's rule against talking while she debated with herself. "You've put the kitten to sleep."

Sarra paused in mid-answer. Cailet was sound asleep on the couch, dark lashes fanning over too-hollow cheeks. Very few things could tear Sarra away from politics, but her little sister finally getting some rest neared the top of the list. Sarra unclipped her shawl and tucked it around Cailet. On the entire journey to Roseguard, Cailet had been Mage Captal, making stops at every tiny village along the way. The last village had been crippled by a wasting fever; Cailet had lent Elo almost all of her strength to heal every last villager.

Collan gave Sarra an approving nod, then took her arm to walk them out of the study. "I'll give word that the Mage Captal is not to be disturbed until dinner, and even that's up for debate."

Sarra kissed his cheek, though she had to stand on tiptoe to do so. "Elo will approve. I thought it was suspicious when you volunteered the pair of you to listen to my debate preparation."

"You're running unopposed. Unless you plan on debating yourself on the actual day, I don't think you have anything to worry about." Collan squeezed the side of her waist, a trifle lower down than was strictly proper, even on their own grounds. "Let's give you a whirl around the old place, Sarra. It's been too long since you've been home."

Late spring sunlight beamed down on Roseguard, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. Sarra had delayed her vacation and missed the cherry blossoms, but the lilacs were out in full force. She reached out to break a sprig from one of the many lilac bushes, only to draw back after startling a honey-drunk bumblebee. Collan laughed at her squawk of surprise and told her she was unfit for the dignity of office.

"You're one to talk." Sarra tweaked one of Collan's copper curls, unguarded by a coif. "Do you remember that time you dyed my hair that awful black? Maybe I should do the same to you."

"Don't you _dare_ ," Collan said. His fingers around her waist turned ticklish, forcing Sarra to flee through the gardens, giggling like a girl of sixteen.

One sunny--and secluded--interlude later, Sarra yawned and stretched, her back pressed against a slender birch tree. She stared up at the sky, not a single cloud interrupting its deep blue. She couldn't help but think of Cailet sleeping in her study. After all these years, she still had no one to share her life with as Sarra had Collan. It would be one thing if Cailet wanted to live without a partner, but sometimes Sarra caught the longing in her sister's eyes as she watched Sarra with Collan, or with her children.

Children. At least Taigan and Mikel were as much Cailet's as they were their parents'. Every year their magic strained against their Wards. Sarra pressed a hand over her own heart, trying to feel her Warded magic within, but she felt nothing. Her instincts stayed quiet, too, uttering no warnings or premonitions. She had nothing to do but vacation, which apparently entailed mid-afternoon romps with her husband, followed by a nap under a tree.

"You've finally stopped thinking about work," Collan observed with lazy satisfaction.

"You too!" was Sarra's mature counterpoint. As much as Collan liked to cultivate his carefree Minstrel image, Sarra knew he worked far into the night. Managing an estate and rearing children amounted to two full-time jobs; it was a shame only the most progressive women in Lenfell acknowledged the fact. Well, they were raising Taigan and Mikel to know better. Knowing them, they'd have the youth of Lenfell believing whatever they wanted them to believe.

Laughing again, Sarra tugged Collan to his feet. "Let's go find the children." Gone were the days when Sarra felt nervous around her children, though she still wasn't good with any child under the age of ten. Once Taigan and Mikel were old enough to understand Sarra's explanations of legislation, she found she could carry on actual conversations with them. (Not that the twins wanted to hear every detail about the legislative body of Lenfell.) In Sarra's unbiased opinion, her children were the most brilliant in the world. Collan and Tarise agreed with her, so what more proof did she need?

Hand in hand, Sarra and Collan finished their stroll. With a little pang, Sarra noted new hangings on the walls, new pieces of furniture or art that beautifully complemented everything Collan had already installed. Roseguard changed every time she left, leaving her to notice--or not notice, in the worst cases--the changes when she returned. "It all looks beautiful," she murmured.

Collan dropped a kiss on her head. He paused with a hand on the door, the twins' voices on the other side. "You helped make it, you know."

Sarra opened her mouth, about to protest that Collan had the sense to leave all matters of decor and fashion to himself, but Collan pushed open the door. Cailet, up too early from her nap but still looking much better, sat in the children's nursery listening to them read her a story. Taigan and Mikel each held one corner of a battered storybook. True to their father, they augmented their storytelling with different character voices and sound effects.

Their eyes widened at the sight of their parents in the doorway, though they had breakfasted together just that morning. Smiling, Sarra motioned for them to continue the story. True to their mother, it took Taigan and Mikel just a few moments to swallow their surprise and go back to reading.

Sarra pressed Collan's hand tightly with her own. _You helped make it, you know._ This here, her children reading their aunt a beloved fairytale, they had made together.


End file.
